Title: Lead Me Home
Rating: Um...everyone ever
Pairing: None. To any particular extent.
Warning: Um...spoilers, yes maybe no.
Word Count: Each are short. Hence, drabble. Though that's a lie, they're probs the ficlets things.
Disclaimer: Neither songs nor Sherlock reincarnation mine.
Summary: Sherlock dreams he is in war, and 10 other ficlets exploring the world of Sherlock.
A/N: Picking a song at random on music player and writing something around it. First 10! Of course, you can only write as long as the song lasts (good news for Meatloaf fans :D). I've cleared them up a little, but I've generally stuck to it. Inspired by a fellow Sherlock writer who was inspired by someone else ^^
3. Made Up Stories – Go: Audio
John wasn't sleeping as Sherlock came in.
"Go away." He said, and Sherlock started.
"Excuse me?" He asked, and John refused to look at him, his back curled towards the man, his face in his pillow.
"Go." He repeated, and he heard the door creak as Sherlock did.
John saw him outside later, looking awkward and itchy, like a mutt with fleas. John felt nothing as he left the house, numb with cold which had nothing to do with the temperature and his yet fingers burnt under the feel of the wool of Sherlock's coat.
"Here." He muttered, draping it over the shivering form, illness brought on by his lack of covering. Sherlock's face asked if he was forgiven, and silently John opened the door. He was not, of course, Sherlock could deduce that easily from John's expression of careless blankness.
"Close the door." John said when they reached the flat, and Sherlock nodded, doing as told for the second time that evening.
"What upset you more?" Sherlock wondered out loud, sounding normal and nonchalant – maybe this was his mistake; what pissed John off the most. "My actions or my lying about them?"
"I'm not upset." John replied.
"Disappointed, then?"
John's smile was strained. "No, Sherlock." He said. "I'm just tired."
"Do you not trust me anymore?"
Sherlock felt colder than he had before when John walked slowly to his room, pointedly not replying, as if to protect his roommate from the truth.
End.